


In the Shadow of Young Flowers in Bloom

by greatdanedana



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, gentle queer awakening, he's 19, sexuality struggles, some light bondage and kink play near later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-13 22:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11194803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatdanedana/pseuds/greatdanedana
Summary: Victor and Yuuri decide to play matchmaker with Yuri and Otabek. Commence: Surprise Summer Training Intensive!aka: Yuri doesn't know how to fall in love and struggles.Everything takes place 3 years after the ending of the anime.





	1. Chapter 1

A memory—a spool of stained gauze in his hands, his skates in a blue bag by his bloodied feet. Dabbing at the raw spots on the balls of his feet. There was large blister on his pinky toe and he resisted the urge to push at the tender sheath of skin until it popped. The yellowish pus would run sticky on his fingers. 

The hot throbbing of his arches and ankles reverberated up his spine. His mother was thirty minutes late. The rink lobby was empty. The custodian stood in the corner turning off the skylights, one by one so that darkness slowly cascaded over the benches and carpet. Yuri felt an anxiety that threatened to crack open his chest, the same anxiety that consumed him when he fudged a jump and fell flat on his tail-bone, that anxiety whispering to him _give up, just give it up._

His mother was not going to come. Yuri stuffed his sore feet into socks, into sneakers. Limped to the vestibule between the outer and inner doors of the ice ink. It was snowing outside, large wet pieces that would stick and melt and freeze so that in the morning, the snow mountains would be hard and crusty, impossible to clear. He heard the custodian lock the doors behind him. It would take him at least thirty minutes to walk home. He had done it before, but not in the snow. The idea of the cold seeping through his sneakers, turning his toes blue, freezing his calves, his knees, hips, abdomen, and eventually his feverishly beating heart, appealed to him. 

_Just give it up. Give up._

He was seven. Maybe his heart would shut up if he hardened himself. If he was strong and unyielding. If when his mother came home late at night smelling of liquor and reaching sloppily for his face, his hair, as he tried to sleep, he turned coldly away from her—a block of ice—she would stop. Stop leaving. Stop forgetting. If he made himself into the smooth, reflective surface whose solidity allowed him to push up into the air and maneuver his body in such a way that he almost flew—he would no longer feel alone. 

A small blue car emerged from the darkness. His grandpa’s car. Yuri felt his entire body unclench. From where he stood, behind the outer glass doors, he could see the collar of his grandpa’s coat, could almost see his grandpa’s rheumy eyes, could almost feel the warmth of the inner sanctum of his grandpa’s car. 

He pushed open the door. 

_____ 

Yuuri Katsuki and Victor’s wedding night. A terrible, sentimental affair. Yuri found himself gagging at the applause that roared to life when Victor dipped Yuuri backwards to deepen what should have been a caste kiss. It sickened to see the goofy smiles on both their faces afterwards, their flushed expressions. Like they knew a secret that could not be shared with anyone else. Someone—Yuri suspected that it was Yuuri—had insisted on a semi-Westernized ceremony and when Yuuri launched the bouquet of roses into the air at ceremony’s end, Yuri refused to reach for it, despite the fluffy white thing being flung in his direction after Chris clumsily dove and missed. The bouquet landed at his feet. He gave it a good kick, hissed a “fuck this” and stalked through the crowd towards the tables of horderves at the far end of the field. He heard Chris call after him, “you can’t refuse destiny like that!” and felt a hot tendril of embarrassment coil in his belly. 

Spring in Hasetsu. A windy, warm outdoor wedding. The temperature dropped steeply at dusk, just as the glittering string lights burst to life. People vacated the area surrounding the ceremonial stage and gathered in the far field, for the reception. Most people were drunk. Yuri scrolled through his Instagram feed, congested with selfies and candid photos from the wedding. He lingered to look at the photo that Phichit posted, capturing the split second after Victor kissed Yuuri under a large vined trellis. It occurred to him that he had never seen Victor smile like that before. Never. 

Suddenly irritated, he pocketed his phone and began to walk. He was ten when he first met Victor at Yakov’s rink and he could tell that Victor had hardened himself the way that Yuri wanted to—despite Victor's flashy public performances, his warm and casual conduct in every possible social situation—Yuri recognized a sliver of coldness, of ice, that Victor kept for himself. It was complex and elegant like a snowflake. Yuri was exhilarated. Someone who might understand, someone who he might confide in, who might guide him—

But Victor was not interested. The aloofness of their initial interactions spoke clearly. _I don’t want to share with you_ Victor’s heart said. 

Yuri believed for the longest time that what followed was _I only want to win._ So Yuri swallowed his loneliness and wove that line into his own heart. So that he also said I only want to win but with more teeth. 

He was now nineteen. His world had begun to change without him fully noticing. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps he misheard. If perhaps, nine years ago, Victor was actually saying, _please don’t be like me._

He wandered among the tables, pushing aside chairs and stepping over paper plates. His head felt heavy and hazy, as if he had one too many glasses of champagne. He drifted among clusters of people, finally spying Victor sprawled by the stage. Yuuri was softly snoring in his lap. Yuri felt a sharp annoyance at the sight of them together, folded into one another like paper cranes. He stalked up to Victor and collapsed in the seat opposite him.

Yuri found himself clenching his teeth. He did not know what to say. Did not know why he had come. To Victor’s side. To the wedding. To Japan. The irritation that had cloaked him all day bubbled into a deep resentment. He wanted to punch Victor. He wanted to run away. 

“Ah, Yuri—“ Victor started.

“Shut up,” Yuri said.

“You don’t even know what I was about to say!”

“Just shut up,” Yuri hissed.

The silence between them stretched. Victor was smiling at him, that soft dopy smile that he began to wear after his coaching fiasco with Yuuri began. Victor tapped his foot to some private, soundless tune; he gently stroked Yuuri’s hair with his left hand. The heavy sensation in Yuri’s head settled into his body, and Yuri found himself clenching and unclenching his teeth in an attempt to focus. 

“Congratulations,” he muttered finally. 

“Thank you,” Victor said and tiled his head inquisitively at Yuri.

Three years ago, he would have laughed at the idea that he would be inexplicably choked by a cloak of doubt that would settle heavily over him. It began when Victor and Yuuri decided to go public with their relationship and subsequent engagement, a year ago. Consequences were immediate—Victor and Yuuri did not return to St. Petersburg where they had planned to spend part of the summer training together. Despite what excuses the two of them made in public and on televised interviews, Yuri knew better. _It might be dangerous for us to return._ Yuri understood and at the same time, did not understand; was it the verbal and physical harassment, the fear of public humiliation, the relentless anxiety? If so, why would they decide to publicly announce anything in the first place? 

At the end of that season, Victor and Yuuri announced their retirement from the ice.

Yuri received notice before it went public. Yuuri sent him a text—just wanted to let you know we’re going to announce it tomorrow. 

Yuri remembered chucking his phone at the nearest piece of furniture, which happened to be Lilia’s vanity. Both the mirror and his phone screen shattered. 

The two disgusting fools had chosen something over the ice. Had conceived a life without it. Was going to actually live that life. 

“What are you and—“ Yuri motioned to the sleeping Yuuri with his chin, “going to do now?”

Victor sighed happily, “Well, I hope that we’ll have some great post wedding sex—“

“Please shut up again—“

“And then we’re going to be traveling for a while. Visiting friends. After that, I’m not so sure.” Victor’s eyes glazed over, as if he had sunk deep into daydream, and his fine features wistfully softened. Silence again. Yuri felt his chest tighten, a spool of familiar heat raveling that made him mildly panic—he wanted to blurt out the first thing that came to his mind. He wanted to say something mean just to see Victor’s face morph into that chilly mask he wore whenever a sports journalist dropped a particularly homophobic question during a live interview. Three years ago, he would not have hesitated to say that terrible thing. He wanted things to be that easy and clear for him again. 

“Um—“ he started. 

“I’m happy you know,” Victor said. 

Yuri unclenched his teeth. “What does that have to do with anything?” He snapped.

He felt a soft pressure on the back of his neck before registering the movement of Victor’s hand. The faintest graze of a fingernail, the pinpoint warmth of a fingertip. Yuri felt his whole body instinctively clench, the tenderness of Victor’s gesture flooding him with hostile embarrassment. 

“You’re always so stiff, Yurio,” Yuri whined and withdrew his hand. 

“Yeah well, at least I’m not soft,” he spat out. Victor wiggles his eyebrows suggestively in response. 

“You’re a gross, dirty old man,” Yuri stood up. There was no heat to his statement. 

It was fully dark now, but difficult to discern as the stage and the far field appeared to be lit by a cluster of fallen stars, an illusion created by the many string lights that fanned out from the stage in a large spiral so that the tables, chairs, and grass glowed. When Yuri glanced down, Victor was cooing gently into Yuuri’s ear. A prince. His princess. Yuri wanted to throw up. 

There was something else too. Yuri could feel it tapping in his chest as he stormed back to the horderves table. It tapped at the hard, cold piece of his heart, that sealed-up soup of messy memories, useless emotions, things that did not help him win and so he cast aside early on. _Tap tap tap_ Yuri squeezed his eyes shut, willed the tapping to stop, willed himself to be strong, to not yield to whatever threatened to shatter his once impenetrable resolve.

_____ 

Back in his room at the Onsen, Yuri decided to FaceTime Otabek. He had been invited to the wedding but could not attend. Yuri did not remember why; Otabek had texted him vaguely about it a week before the wedding date. 

They were friends. Sometimes Yuri wondered: best friends? It was unclear, as a lot of things regarding Otabek were. 

“Yuri, your hair’s gotten longer,” Otabek’s blurry face bobbed on the screen. Yuri could see the shape of trees illuminated with the pink light of dusk. He wondered if he caught Otabek in the middle of a cool-down run. 

“You always fucking say that,” Yuri said, perching his phone between his knees while he fanned his long hair gratutiously over his pillow. He wished the reception was better so he could see Otabek’s eyes. During one of their competitions together in Beijing, Yuri had seen something dark flit over Otabek’s eyes while Yuri casually played with his hair, waiting for his turn on the ice. It electrified him. It was so brief Yuri believed for the longest time he imagined it. 

“Hm,” Otabek said. 

Usually Yuri FaceTimed Otabek when he had something to complain about—Yakov and Lilia’s brutal practice regime, the annoying sixteen year old American skater who made his senior debut last year and scored higher than Yuri in his short program at GPF, the tourists that invaded St. Petersburg during the summer—so Yuri wasn’t surprised at Otabek’s subsequent silence. He was used to Yuri taking charge of the conversation. But tonight Yuri was a little drunk and his belly ached from eating too many horderves and he didn’t know what he wanted to say. 

“Are you okay Yuri?” Otabek said. 

“Yes,” Yuri replied. For a moment, Otabek’s face was crystal clear, his heavy eyebrows slightly downcast on his stoic face. His undercut was still perfectly trimmed, though Yuri noticed that his bangs had grown longer. It had been months since they’d last met. That’s how it usually was between them. Light texting during the many months they were apart, a video call occasionally when Yuri felt particularly prickly, but their relationship was amorphous, very touch and go. They met once a year, maybe twice, at the Grand Prix Final and Worlds and spent almost all of their free time together. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them. Yuri did not know Otabek’s mother’s name, but did know that Otabek named his motor-bike, Marcel, after a character in a novel titled _In Search of Lost Time._

“Do you want to see something Yuri?” Otabek said. 

“Something other than your fucking face? Sounds great to me,” Yuri teased. He watched Otabek’s eyebrows slowly ascend in what Yuri knew translated into amusement. Yuri’s view panned towards the sky as (Yuri presumed) Otabek began to jog. The swaying hurt his head so Yuri closed his eyes and listened to Otabek’s rhythmic breathing. He curled up under his blankets and shifted the phone so that it faced him as he lay on his side. Their interactions rarely carried any of the forced bravado and anger that Yuri so often projected into social situations. Early on, he felt that Otabek was the kind of person who could figure out the complex pieces of that facade and dismantle it cleanly, with a deft hand. So Yuri toned himself down. Felt that it was necessary, if they were to continue to be friends. 

Yuri did not know that he had dozed off until he was startled awake by Otabek’s voice. 

“Yuri, come look at this,” Otabek said, as if Yuri were simply running behind him and had yet to catch up. 

There was a slight blur as Otabek fumbled with the positioning of his phone. Then: mountains, snow-capped, dusted with warm orange light, the bursting brightness of reflected water, the handful of crimson flowers blooming on a cluster of trees, a garden awash in sepia tones, pulled from the pages of a dusty novel or someone’s memory of the world from long, long ago. Yuri realized that Otabek was standing on a small, wooden bridge, the handrail barely visible at the bottom of the screen. The sky began to turn a color that Yuri had never seen before. He felt impossibly awed.

“You have good timing, I’m at the Botanic Gardens,” Otabek said. A beat. Then: “Isn’t it beautiful Yuri?” 

A secret had just passed between them. The realization ached gently in his chest. Otabek was constantly doing this. Whenever Yuri felt like he'd landed, had gathered his bearings, knew clearly what their relationship was, where it was going to go—nowhere, but who cared—Otabek did something that punched Yuri in the gut. Knocked the wind out of his lungs. Left him scrambling and confused and out of control. 

“Yes,” Yuri whispered. 

_____ 

Otabek spoke four languages fluently: Kazakh, Russian, English and Japanese. Yuri spoke three: Russian, English and Japanese. 

In this dream, Otabek was whispering to him in Russian, his lips grazing the lob of Yuri’s ear and Yuri was losing it. His body shook. Heat radiated from his neck, down his spine straight to his crotch as Otabek nibbled at the outer shell of Yuri’s ear. Yuri was pressed against a wall, Otabek’s body hemming him in—no where to go except to press himself flatter, make himself smaller, the overwhelming heat of Otabek’s body lighting Yuri up in flames. His brain scrambled to figure out exactly what Otabek was saying. This was incredibly important somehow. 

“What?” Yuri was distraught at how distracted he was; it was difficult to pay attention when the many separate pieces of his body ached so sweetly. “What the fuck are you saying?”

Otabek’s hand tangled in his hair, the other hand stroking the length of his neck, up and down, up and down, so gently as if Yuri were made of blue ceramic. The repetitive motion was maddening; Yuri instinctively turned to the side and bore more of his neck. His hands were stiff by his side—he didn’t know what to do. Had never been in a situation like this. He wanted to touch Otabek, wanted to crawl up his body, maul his mouth. But was frozen. A soft whine escaped him as the gentle stroking continued. Yuri panted heavily, tried to discern Otabek’s stoney expression but found that he could not.

Otabek leaned in, yanked Yuri’s hair roughly. A bolt of heat shot straight to Yuri's cock. 

“I said, what do you want Yura? What do you want from me?” 

Yuri closed his eyes. He knew he was making embarrassingly pathetic sounds, knew that he was flushed down to his chest, knew that the taut line of his erection was visible through his sleep-shorts. His mind formed an answer to Otabek’s question but try as he might, he could not focus on what that answer was. _I want, I want, I want—_

Why was he still wearing his sleep-shorts? When had Otabek arrived? 

Then Yuri was awake. 

The sheets of his makeshift bed were pooled to one side. He was sprawled on his back like a starfish. A wave of guilt crashed into him as the vividness of his dream dissipated and Yuri examined the real life consequences. There was an obscene wet patch on the front of his shorts where his erection pressed against the soft cloth. 

Yuri knew immediately: this day was going to be a shit day. 

He’d never fantasized about Otabek before. And in this particular fantasy, Otabek had called him Yura. Did he want that? Did he subconsciously want that? 

After he came—more intensely than usual—all over his hand, he decided that he absolutely did not want that at all. 

It was early enough that the sky was just beginning to turn the color of a robin’s egg. Yuri slipped into light running gear and made his way outside. He ran towards the ocean, threading his way through the dark, otherworldly light and as his body slipped into a lazy jog, he felt the knot of tension that sat at the base of his neck begin to unwind. There was no deeper meaning to his wet dream about Otabek. He needn’t worry—the boundaries between dream and reality were well defined—and there would never be any opportunity for whatever strange desires emerged from that dream to settle, take root, and bloom. They both loved the ice too much. Yuri was certain of this. 

The ocean smelled thickly of salt. Yuri stopped to watch the white silhouettes of gulls ascend over the water, attentively braying at everything, himself included. He stood there until the white line of the horizon erupted and the sky began to blush with sunrise, until the thoughts in his mind stopped swirling, until his breathing evened out to the sound of the tide rising and falling. He did not know how long he stood there, shivering in the early morning cold. When he decided to run back, the sun had risen high above the expanse of water and the air was warm enough for him to shed his light jacket. 

He was strong. This period of doubt was temporary. He would return to St. Petersburg tomorrow, begin training for the upcoming season, would fall back into old routines that had sustained him since he first found solace in the ice at six, and would win gold at Worlds, at GPF and at Four Continents—that's what he wanted. To win. To prove that he was strong by breaking world records, by covering a wall with his glittering gold medals. There was nothing else. 

_____ 

Before Yuri could slip out of his sneakers, back at the Onsen, Yuuri’s mother appeared from the dining area to explain loudly, “Oh, Yurio! That went over so quickly!”

Yuri squinted at her, “What are you talking about?”

A half-groomed Phichit popped out from behind her. “The surprise, Yurio, at the Ice Castle?” 

Yuri wa starving. He could smell miso and egg wafting in from the dining area. He had crumpled his nylon jacket into a ball and was passing it from hand to hand.

“What surprise?” He looked at Yuuri’s mother, then Phichit, whose expression was rapidly morphing into one of sheer panic. 

“Oh no, oh no—you’ve gotta call Yuri—“ Phichit scrambled from behind Yuuri’s mother, stumbled over the small ledge that separated the entryway from the dining area and collapsed at Yuri’s feet. Yuri took a step back, instinctively dropped the jacket over Phichit’s head. 

“Why do I need to—“ Yuri started but Phichit flung the jacket against the wall and had begun rummaging furiously through Yuri’s pant pockets, muttering: “phone, phone—“

“I got it, I got it!” Yuri exclaimed, trying to fight off Phitchit while dialing Yuuri’s number with one hand. 

“Yuri! Where are you?” Yuuri’s voice was shrill in that particularly anxious way he sounded when he was stressed about a mistake he’d made on the ice. 

“What the hell do you mean? I’m back at the Onsen, where else would I be?” Yuri shouted back at him.

“Weren’t you going to the Ice Castle??” Yuuri huffed. Victor laughing in the background? Yuri felt heat rise to his chest, his cheeks. 

“No,” Yuri said, “I was—"

“Come to the Ice Castle!” Victor’s bubbly voice, the one that Yuri hated. 

“No, wait, don’t come—“ Yuuri’s voice, then Victor’s immediately afterwards: “Yes! This will work out! Yuuri have some faith—“

“I don’t want anything to do with whatever the hell is going on,” Yuri deadpanned, “I just want to eat.”

“Come to the Ice Castle!!” Victor cooed gleefully and Yuri could hear an exasperated sigh escape Yuuri.

“Why?” Yuri whined.

“Just do it! Come on Yurio—“ 

Yuri was ready to throw his phone across the hall. Phichit had crawled back to the dining space and was looking at him fearfully from where he sat before a spread of Yuuri’s mother’s cooking: rice, miso soup, grilled fish, omelet and a dish of pickled plums. Yuri watched as Phichit placed a morsel of food into his mouth, sheepishly grinning at Yuri. _Sorry._

“Give me ten minutes,” he hissed through his teeth. 

_____ 

“SURPRISE!” Victor cooed as Yuri walked through the lobby of the Ice Caste and into a shower of multi-colored confetti.

“I don’t get it,” Yuri said, dusting his hair of tiny paper pieces. He looked up, to the large banner that Victor was pointing to, that he’d somehow failed to notice as he walked in the door. WELCOME TO SURPRISE SUMMER INTENSIVE. It was obvious the triplets had done the paint job—the red paint was immaculate. 

“No,” Yuri said. 

“Yurio!! You don’t even know what we have planned!!” Victor whined. Yuuri was standing behind him, scratching his head bashfully. They were both wearing their skating gear, though Yuri noticed the slight disheveled mess that was Yuuri’s hair. He felt the calm coolness of the early morning ebb away. 

“There’s no good reason for me to train with you two!” He spat. 

Immediately, Victor’s expression settled into one of icy confidence. “Ah, Yurio, you say that now. But who's the most decorated international skater? Who’s won gold at GFP for the past two years?” Victor gleefully pointed at himself, then at Yuuri, who subsequently smirked. 

Yuri clenched his teeth, ran his hands through his hair. 

“Fuck you both,” he said. “What happened to ‘traveling and visiting friends’?” 

Victor exchanged a look with Yuuri. There was still something they were keeping to themselves and Yuri wanted to wrestle both of them into a head-lock until they choked out the whole story. Nothing was making sense. And Yuri didn’t do ‘nothing made sense’. 

Yuuri cleared his throat. “We’ll still do that, after this."

“So you have to do it!” Victor slapped Yurio’s back, causing him to lurch forward with a great cough. 

“Besides, Victor will choreograph your short program again,” Yuuri said, walking towards the double doors of the inner rink. 

“I wanted to do it myself this year,” Yuri muttered, running his hands through his hair again. “I don’t have my skates.”

Victor materialized Yuri’s skating bag from inside a locker and threw it at him. “Yakov,” Victor provided as explanation. 

Yuri unclenched his teeth. Kicked his bag. The whole world was scheming against him. He felt a rush of blisteringly hot irritation, something that would normally make him yell and throw his bag back at Victor before storming out. Then he realized. Victor and Yuuri would not be returning to the ice with him. The realization sobered him. Perhaps they were as saddened as he was; perhaps that this strange, convoluted, over-the-top affair was an attempt at bridging the gap between a past that all three of them were hurtling away from and a future full of change. 

“This short program choreography better be the best goddamn choreography I’ve ever seen,” Yuri pushed past Victor, who had approached him with a sliver of concern after his momentary pause. He was angry at himself; somehow, he was a mess of emotions again, the collected resolution of his morning run by the ocean long gone. Some greater force was tugging him here and there, had been tugging him here and there for the past year, refusing to relinquish control and Yuri was growing panicked, the pressure of uncertainty one that seemed more and more permanent, despite how he fought it. _Yield,_ the world seemed to be exclaiming, _yield yield yield_ —and Yuri did not know how much longer he could refuse to listen.  


_____ 

At first, the violinist in the video looked constipated; she played with a pinched face and her movements seemed stiff. Yuri watched with disinterest. 

“This is the part I’ve choreographed,” Victor tapped at his phone.

The music suddenly swelled, lush and romantic, like an overgrown garden, filled with ivy, ferns, and flowering lilacs—and Yuri was struck by the intensity of the pace, the relentlessness, as if someone were running through this garden, brimming with joy—and then the music crescendoed, paused for a beat, the high notes sinking into something dark, and Yuri watched the violinist flush with exertion, her movements growing erratic. The music sweetened again, lingered softly like the sugary aftertaste of lemonade. When Victor paused the video, Yuri felt a bead of sweat crawl down his neck. 

“Mendelssohn, Violin Sonata in F Major. It’s a section from the first movement,” Victor said, “What does the music make you think of?”

Yuri licked his lips, suddenly overheated. “I don’t know,” he coughed. Victor and Yuuri exchanged a look. 

“Uh, a garden, or something,” Yuri said. 

Victor snorted. “It’s a very romantic song,” he said, “It carries the intensity of first love, true love, the weight of realizing it.” Another eye exchange between Victor and Yuuri; both of them looked away quickly, cheeks pink. Yuri felt like vomiting again. 

“Well, whatever,” he pushed himself away from the walls of the rink and began to skate slow circles, “I can skate to it. It’s fine.”

“Yuri, who do you think of when you listen to this song?” Victor yelled at him.

“No one!” Yuri stuck his chin out and gave Victor the middle finger. The creeping heat of insecurity had clawed delicately into his chest again. He could understand why Victor had chosen something like that for him—it would be a surprise, a change, a part of Yuri that he had yet to reveal to audiences. He’d done elegance, otherworldly beauty, fire and madness and reverence. But not whatever they were suggesting he do now.

As he began to learn the sequence, he thought of everything he loved: his grandpa, St. Petersburg during the autumn, the exhaustion that comes after a perfect performance on the ice, katsudon pirozkhis, miso soup, the hot springs, Yakov (to a certain extent), Lilia (to a very particular extent)—there was a long list of things and people he loved. He did not understand what emotion Victor and Yuuri seemed to insist was the theme of the song, the program, that was different from what love he had right now. He was skating poorly because of it—he over-rotated his quad salchow and stepped out of a tripe axel—mistakes that he hadn’t made in years, even in practice. 

At the end of the afternoon, he was seething with frustration. He was sore, tired, and wanted to strangle both Victor and Yuuri. He wanted to quit—he’d partially agreed to do this summer training intensive out of pity for them. There was no real reason for him to continue. Another wave of anger, this time directed at himself. When did he become the kind of skater who quit when things grew difficult?

Yuuri’s phone began to chime and the lesson halted as Yuuri hastily skated over to grab it. 

“Let’s break,” Victor said. He also looked visibly worn. 

Off the ice, Yuri sucked at his water bottle while sorting through a tumultuous storm of emotions. Usually, time spent on the ice cleared his head, rinsed him clean from whatever messiness life dealt him. Yuri was confused, inapt at whatever sophisticated range of expression Victor and Yuuri attempted to wring out of him. 

Noise had erupted from the other side of the rink, at the double doors to the lobby. Victor had left his side without Yuri realizing it. 

He shed his skates. He wanted to eat, was craving katsudon. He wondered if they could head back to the Onsen and if he had the time and energy for a midnight run to the ocean, just to clear his head. 

The sound of laughter, then Victor’s happy exclamation. He thought he heard someone say ‘welcome’. 

Yuri squinted—there was a third shape among Victor and Yuuri—strange. Was it Yuuko? Yuri began to walk in that direction. He felt his body buzzing. He faintly recognized a chill creeping under his skin as his sweat cooled. He felt as if he recognized this person, but his mind would not materialize the information. Yuri was halfway there when the double doors opened, and he dropped his water bottle in shock. 

It was Otabek. Otabek Altin, standing inside the Ice Castle, wearing a dark jacket and carrying what could only be a skate bag. Otabek Altin with his dark hair and perfectly trimmed undercut, his sculpted face and strong shoulders. Yuri instantly wanted to run away, wanted to run towards Otabek. His head swam and a moment later, he was looking at himself, as if he were watching a video, walk in the direction of the lobby. Blink back in his body, on the other side of the double doors, waiting for Otabek to notice him through the glass. 

Yuri barely registered the doors opening and Victor and Yuuri pulling him forward. Otabek's eyebrows were raised. What did he have to be amused about? There was a slight layer of cat fur on the outside of Otabek’s jacket. Yuri frantically tried to remember if Otabek ever mentioned owning a cat. 

“Am I dreaming?” Yuri said dumbly.

Otabek furrowed his eyebrows, “Do you dream of me Yuri?” 

_Fuck._ Not a dream. 

He smelled slightly of clove and pepper. Yuri’s eyes flickered rapidly to his mouth, then back to his eyes. He prayed that Otabek had not noticed, had not discerned Yuri’s slight moment of indulgence. Most people were extremely readable, Yuri had learned this when he was very young; emotions often floated to the surface of the eye, like a fine mist spreading across a sheet of glass, the colors and textures of happiness, grief, anger so distinctive, despite attempts to conceal. Yuri knew this about himself. Did not particularly care. 

But Otabek’s eyes most of the time were solid black, still and dense as stone. 

“Fuck you, what the fuck,” Yuri spat and shoved past Otabek, trying desperately to postpone the onslaught of a tide of new emotions—joy, confusion, warmth—emotions that would ruin him. Would unseal him and render him a mess.

“Yurio—“ he heard Victor and Yuuri call after him as he dashed outside. He driven purely by instinct now, the need for space, for a moment to process the impossible. He slowed down, stopped to run his hands through hair. He was only a few meters away from the entrance of the Ice Caste. He watched Otabek leave the inner chamber and jog towards him. 

“I thought you’d be happy to see me Yuri,” Otabek said. 

His face was a stony mask.

“I just hate surprises,” Yuri said. Heat radiated from his chest down his spine, into his legs, the back of his knees; it wasn’t the heat of anger, of frustration that he felt so often, it wasn’t the startling silver heat of insecurity that he tried to suppressed but returned again and again like an annoying pest; he’d never felt anything like it before and all he wanted to do was to eradicate it from his body, to rinse every nook and cranny and cavern of his body of it—he could not stop wondering: _why had Otabek come?_

“Are you okay Yuri?” Otabek said, the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Otabek had been halfway around the world. 

“Yes,” Yuri clenched his teeth, unclenched his teeth. Clenched his fist, unclenched his fist. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” Yuri said again, aggravated at how unconvincing he sounded. 

Otabek opened his mouth, closed it. Something passed over his eyes, but disappeared almost immediately. Yuri reached out, touched his shoulder, his chest. Otabek looked at Yuri’s hand, then at Yuri’s face. His expression was indiscernible. Yuri felt a stillness bloom in his body as he scrambled to compose himself. Normal, he said to himself, this was all normal. Just everyday events. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to question. 

The skin of Otabek’s leather jacket felt like silk. Yuri realized with a start that he’d let his hands wander; he retracted his hand hastily. Otabek’s face was still the same stoic expression, though the line of tension in his shoulders that Yuri saw a moment ago was gone. 

Normal, everyday events. Nothing special. Nothing to question. 

Yuri heard Yuuri’s voice call out from the entrance of the Ice Caste: “Um…surprise Yurio! Surprise!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri is happy Otabek is here  
> Yuri is frantic as Otabek flirts with him

Yuri knew what it looked like. Knew how it might manifest. 

Mila and her boyfriend, before their relationship soured: he braided her hair before practice, bought her containers filled with sweets. Yuri remembered the two of them sitting on a rink bench in exhausted silence, Mila’s right leg draped carefully over her boyfriend's left shin. The way she occasionally stretched up to poke his forehead and how he leaned down, to kiss her. 

The Grand Prix Final in Marseille a year ago, early morning after the night of final banquet: Yuri was coming back from an anguished run; he’d lost gold that year to Katsudon. He caught sight of a handsome stranger leaving Chris’ room, watched as Chris—with a gesture so tender, so private, Yuri felt immediately ashamed to witness—reached over to tuck a stray piece of hair from this man’s face. 

And of course, between Yuuri and Victor. Rink mates in St. Petersburg the season after Yuri’s gold, Katsudon’s silver, the season Victor came back to the ice. An endless onslaught of disgustingly intimate gestures—hand holding, nose nuzzling, sharing food and water and towels—so much so that Yuri felt grossly de-sensitized. But still, when Victor massaged Yuuri’s neck and Yuuri’s whole body stiffened, then melted, Yuri noticed.

And Yakov and Lilia, whose love hypothetically died years ago in their divorce. Yuri remembered watching Lilia slip a small pot of menthol chapstick to Yakov. The way she touched his inner wrist as she pulled away. His bashful, pleased expression. 

The words that people used to talk about it—desire, lust, love—used to describe an amorphous feeling, a pattern of behaviors, an utterly indescribable sensation. In a rare, vulnerable moment, Yuri had asked Yuuri about it. It was during that season Yuuri spent training in St. Petersburg; the two lovebirds had just fought. Yuri felt bad just watching Yuuri pout. (He’d seen Victor pout more than a hundred times already). Yuuri startled at the question and scratched his head, eyes darkening. Yuri knew the look on Katsudon’s face that indicated a seriousness, a steadiness, a look that Yuuri wore before every outstanding skate, a look that Yuuri was wearing now.

_I think_ , Yuuri said, _it’s like you’re drowning_. 

_That sounds fucking awful_ , Yuri scoffed, _what the hell_. 

Yuuri flustered, _it’s not like actually drowning_ —he paused—

_I almost drowned once, when I was seven. It was summer and my sister took me to the ocean to cool down. The tide was behaving strangely. I didn’t notice and was wading into it, collecting stones. The water pulled me in before I could think twice. Before my sister noticed_.

Yuuri licked his lips, played with his hands. _At one point, I was pretty deep in the water. I was being flung back and forth, all while struggling to surface, struggling to breathe, absolutely panicked. But that’s not all. I think there was a moment where I decided to give up, to let all this water just take me away, and had accepted for a split second, that this massive force would just erase me_. 

He laughed. _It was pretty scary. I was rescued very quickly after that_. 

Yuuri glanced sidelong at Victor’s silhouette, on the other side of the rink. Then looked back at Yuri.

_That’s what love feels like_. 

Yuri swallowed. He had not realized he’d been holding his breath. Yuuri was silent. 

There was a time when Yuri almost drowned too. Skating atop the pond near his grandpa’s house. The ice just a little too thin, Yuri just a little too exhilarated by the cold to pay attention. When the ice gave way and he was engulfed by the water, Yuri was filled with heat. He fought, struggled for purchase, yelled, breathed, clawed his way to thicker ice so that he could hoist himself up. He walked back to his grandpa’s house, soaked, practically hypothermic, alone. The whole time, his body buzzed with adrenaline and he felt hot, still ready to fight, ready to slam himself, again and again, against that immense, unforgiving thing that had dragged him down. 

He decided after his conversation with Yuuri that he didn’t have any need for love. If love was like what Yuuri described.

\-----------------------

There was a room, the size of a storage closet, beside Yuri’s room at the Onsen. It’s two windows faced southwest so in the summer, it was constantly filled with light. Yuri had never noticed this room before. This now became Otabek’s room.

Yuri had already known, but was newly surprised at all the bits and pieces that Otabek packed with him as he traveled: books—usually one or two during GFP or Worlds—a small round stone that he kept in a purple pouch, an assortment of hard candies, a trove of toiletries—lotions, bandages, herbal muscle rubs—Yuri usually teased him about it. (Despite his own bad traveling habits. He always had to check a bag because he brought along so many pairs of shoes and shirts and jackets).

_What did a good solider need with so many material things_? 

And Otabek usually replied, a small smile exposing the crack in his stony exterior, _I never said I was a good solider, Yuri. I said that’s what you are_.

\-----------------------

After an awkward walk back from the Ice Castle, where Yuri lingered behind the others as they made casual small talk, Yuri locked himself in his room and nursed his hunger with a protein bar. He closed his eyes and fought his body’s strange buzzing; there was resistance, the heat and anxiety difficult to dispel, and his mind returned again and again to the unusual uncertainty of the next few days, the next few weeks. Yuri knew that Otabek was unpredictable but not irrational. Everything about flying across the world to a country that Otabek had maybe spent ten days total in during his whole skating career to participate in a training session during the off season with some newly-wed senior skaters, was irrational. And because Otabek had done something irrational, Yuri was naturally jumping to irrational conclusions: _he must have come to see me, just to see me_.

Yuri didn’t know what to think next. 

There was a layer of tepid helplessness that had arrived with his uncertainty, a frustration that felt old and childish. Yuri was wary of anything childish. He was not a child, had not been a child for many years. 

He dozed off off and gave a grunt at Yuuri’s voice calling him down for dinner. He did not go. Not eating a proper meal after a strenuous workout was irresponsible. Yakov wasn’t nearby to scold him, so Yuri gently scolded himself. Then stripped and crawled back into bed. 

At some point he woke up facing the open window. It was still early summer and the temperature dropped steeply at night; Yuri shivered at the chill that permeated his room. In a semi-coherent state, he closed the window and looked up at the sky—the stars that had descended the night before for Yuuri and Victor’s wedding were now back home in the sky—and Yuri was flooded with warmth as he felt a genuine happiness for them, their little glittering bodies, so far away, home safe and sound. As he wrapped himself up in his sheets, he heard a small rhythmic sound come from the room next to his. For a silly second he considered ghosts. Then it occurred to him that Yuuri had probably put Otabek up in that room. His empty stomach coiled, a sliver of heat spread in his chest. What was Otabek doing? 

At some point, Yuri drifted back to sleep.

\-----------------------

He woke up hungry. Driven by instinct, Yuri walked downstairs to the empty kitchen. He saw a plate with his name on it in the fridge and he felt grateful for Yuuri, for it was most definitely Yuuri who had saved leftovers for him. He pulled the plastic off the plate and began to eat the cold food with his hands, growing deeply satisfied as he chipped away at his hunger.

Another early morning. The tender blue light spilled across the tiled windowsill and Yuri watched as the light crawled across the tangled vines of the potted plants that Yuuri’s mother kept. The leaves twitched and unfurled in anticipation of the warmth to come, a phenomenon that seemed magical to Yuri. He felt strangely suspended in time, as if what he remembered of yesterday had actually passed in a long dream. The strange heat, his anxiety, Otabek. His mind was now blissfully blank. Yuri rinsed his plate and hands, made his way up the stairs. 

Just as he reached his door, Otabek stepped out of his. Bleary-eyed and clearly still half-asleep, he didn’t notice Yuri standing behind him, leaning to peek inside his room. 

“Yuri,” he startled, touching Yuri’s shoulder briefly after he turned around, as if to push him away. He still smelled of pepper and clove and Yuri wondered if it was a new shampoo. Usually Otabek smelled of lemons. 

Yuri could see Otabek’s open suitcase, the neat piles of clothing, the edge of a green clip holding a small bag of hard caramels through the crack in Otabek’s door. Next to his suitcase was a tall pile of books. Otabek coughed, shifted from one foot to the other. Yuri glanced at his face—they were less than a foot apart—and noticed something flit across Otabek’s eyes, something Yuri could not read. This was not unusual. Yuri was familiar with only a handful of Otabek’s quirks, but somehow Yuri’s stomach churned at the sight of it.

In an attempt to divert the awkwardness between them, Yuri shoved a foot into the door that Otabek was sheepishly trying to close. 

“How many books did you bring with you?” Yuri said, sandwiching Otabek between the door. The door swung open with ease with the addition of Otabek’s weight. There was a stack of books that nearly reached the top of the bed’s headboard. 

“Twenty,” Otabek muttered. 

“So you’re planning on reading twenty books while simultaneously doing a summer skate intensive?” Yuri laughed. 

“Well…yes,” Otabek said. 

“Oh my god, you have absolutely no life,” Yuri gasped, “what’s the longest you’ve ever been in Japan?”

“Four days,” Otabek replied, eyebrows furrowing. 

“So you’re planning on reading twenty books while finally visiting Japan for more than four days, while also doing a summer skate intensive?” Yuri smirked, “when are you planning on being a proper tourist? When are you going to let me take you to the best places to eat in Hasetsu?"

“I don’t usually—“ Otabek started, then paused, “I didn’t want to assume that we’d spend—“ another pause, longer this time. “I wasn’t sure how much free time I’d have. So I came prepared.” That answer seemed to satisfy whatever momentary anxiety overcame Otabek. 

Yuri grabbed Otabek’s arm, emboldened by something in his gut, giddy with it. “Come on, let me show you my favorite thing about Hasetsu right now.” 

“What?” Otabek shifted backwards, surprise flashing across his eyes. Yuri was pleased. Otabek was hard to surprise so Yuri thought of it as a challenge. Yuri urged him to get dressed in his gear, to bring his bag along. They would head straight to the Ice Castle afterwards. Before Yuri dragged Otabek down the stairs and out the door, he stopped by Victor and Yuuri’s door to yell, “we’ll see you at the rink!” before dashing away. Just annoying loud enough to wake them up. 

“It’s six in the morning Yuri,” Otabek said as they began to jog. 

“So what?” Yuri smarted back. Despite their height difference, their running pace was similar. Yuri believed that his faster strides made up for Otabek’s naturally long ones. Otabek chuckled. Another rare jewel gained this morning. They settled into a comfortable silence, the same comfortable silence that always sat between them when they met, and Yuri was buoyant with relief. Nothing had really changed. Whatever funk possessed him yesterday had disappeared. He was happy Otabek was here. He wanted Otabek to be here.

As they crossed the bridge, Yuri watched as Otabek craned his neck to stare at the ocean, glowing green with the early morning light. Otabek was drawn to beautiful things. Yuri had grown to appreciate the reverent silence that settled over Otabek whenever he saw across something beautiful—a glittery velveteen dress, an orange tree bent heavy with fruit, a tiny ceramic bell. He knew that Otabek looked at things carefully, thoughtfully, as if trying to uncover it’s secrets. 

“Wait till you see the water from the other side,” Yuri said. Otabek nodded, eyes glued to the horizon, where the sun was beginning to rise in earnest.

Yuri took him to the rocky platform near the shoreline, partially obscured by two weeping willows. Otabek was breathing steadily, his skin slightly damp with sweat. His lips parted in awe as the sun climbed the rungs of the sky ladder, faster and faster, eager to reach it’s first plateau in the sky so it could sit and spread it’s warmth across the earth. The water was turquoise, then cyan, then a deep deep navy blue. Yuri breathed in the smell of salt and clay, watched the water for a moment, then moved so he could observe Otabek without being noticed. The willows hissed, hummed and whispered as the wind unfurled; Yuri noticed that Otabek’s eyes had softened, had grown glassy. He had not expected that kind expression from Otabek. He felt unsettled, as if he’d stumbled upon something he did not necessarily want to discover. 

“You look like that gull over there,” Yuri pointed to a particularly discolored, disgruntled-looking gull standing atop a wooden post.

Otabek furrowed his brows. “I definitely do not,” he said.

“Do too,” Yuri said, “you have this dumb ‘woah’ look all over your face. Just like that gull.”

Otabek shifted suddenly to face Yuri. The softness in his eyes of a moment ago was gone, replaced with his usual unreadable expression. Yuri took a step back. Their height difference—no more than a few inches—was suddenly obvious in the way Otabek seemed to tower over Yuri, seemed to suddenly close the gap between them with the slight adjustment of his body. Yuri felt something hot crawl down his neck, his spine and sit at the small of his back. Otabek tilted his head, and Yuri resisted the urge to cover his own face. 

“You look like that gull over there,” Otabek pointed to a small, fluffy gull behind Yuri, trying desperately to pick up a peanut wedged between two rocks. The tension between them dissipated as Yuri broke eye contact to look. 

“I do not look that pathetic,” Yuri huffed. 

“You look that cute,” Otabek said and broke away to jog in the direction of the Ice Castle. Yuri was frozen, utterly baffled. Had he heard correctly? His body was instantly flooded with a wave of heat.

“What?” Yuri yelled, heart thrumming in his chest and neck, “Fuck—what did you say?! Come back here!” He ran after Otabek but Otabek was running faster now, his strides more aggressive. The two of them inadvertently raced up the stairs, round the bend, down the cobblestones to the locked doors of the rink, where they stopped, bent over, heaving for air. Yuri felt himself smiling, could not help it. He had won. When he glanced at Otabek’s face, he saw that Otabek was smiling too, sweat dripping down his chin, a smile so wide that it seemed as if his face had been split in half. A smile Yuri had never seen before. 

“You win Yuri,” Otabek said between gasps of air. 

Yuri nodded, wiping sweat off his cheek with a hand. He had won.

\-----------------------

Puberty had not carved his body in the way Yuri feared it would. He’d grown taller, but not so much that his lithe frame was disastrously altered from his ability to jump with the grace of a gazelle. He retained most of his flexibility and had gained more muscle, which allowed him to jump higher. He’d let his hair grow long. A rope of yellow that hung down his back. Still fairy-esque, but now with an added edge. His elegance was the elegance of cut glass, fine and sharp and translucent.

Yuri learned that during warm-ups, Otabek enjoyed skating in large, slow arcs against the outer perimeter of the rink, over and over again, the repetition rhythmic and obsessive, a hungry predator staking the same fields, seeking something to slaughter. He did this for what seemed like hours before moving on to his spins and jumps. Yuri was impatient with his warmups, wanting to move quickly into practice, immediately wanting to fly across the ice. Victor lectured him about the dangers of hasty warmups and Yuri pouted, listened, but did not change. 

The days began to gain structure. Began to grow full. In the morning, they jogged by the ocean, up to the Ice Castle and stretched while waiting for Victor and Yuuri to join them. They practiced through the afternoons. In the evening, they shared meals at the Onsen with Yuuri’s family and Victor, or Yuri dragged Otabek to the outdoor food market, or to eat ramen, or to the arcade, or to the large square outside Hasetsu Castle, illuminated by street lamps. As the days grew longer, the charm and beauty of the town also unfurled, like a flower opening for first sun, and Yuri found himself full of a gentle joy that seemed so easy to feel. When he glanced at Otabek during their excursions, he saw, more often than not, a soft, happy look on Otabek’s face. Their days were filled with one another. It began to feel so natural that Yuri could not believe that for years, their relationship had been full of holes, full of distance.

Yuri learned that Otabek had a younger sister. He learned that Otabek had a small tabby cat named Gustave, which Yuri found hilarious. He learned that Otabek liked eating green onions raw and whole. He learned that Otabek always walked so slowly that Yuri had to constantly backtrack just to stay by his side. Otabek wore sunglasses everywhere, even if there was no sun. Yuri learned that Otabek’s mother’s name was Sofia. And that she was a pianist. And that Otabek was one too. 

Over bits of sweet, sticky rice, Otabek asked Yuri about his mother. 

“Oh, I didn’t know her very well,” Yuri shrugged, “She was an alcoholic.”

Otabek seemed startled.

Yuri licked his fingers. “What?” He smirked, “It’s not like she tried to keep it a secret.”

Otabek paused, then said, “Did she die Yuri? You talk about her in the past tense.”

Yuri shifted, uncomfortable. He didn’t like talking about his mother. “I don’t know if she’s dead,” he said, sitting very straight, “she left my life when I was eight. My grandpa picked me up from her apartment and I never came back.” 

Otabek’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry Yuri,” he said, reaching over to touch Yuri’s hand. 

“It’s whatever,” Yuri said, looking at Otabek’s fingers. He felt heat rise to his cheeks. He looked away. 

Yuri learned that Otabek casually touched him, everywhere.

\-----------------------

To be a skater was to be alone. Singles figure skating was a practice in solitude, the intensity of ones own ambition entirely enacted by the self, the crushing failure and ecstasy of success experienced almost entirely by the self. The physical performance reflected by an exploration of ones inner landscape. As a consequence, most skaters tended to be loners, guarded, more than a little wary, in their own way. Out on the ice, you were by yourself. And because skaters were on the ice for so much of their waking life, their time off the ice often took on a chilly quality as well.

Most of the time, Yuri and Otabek spent their time on the ice doing different things. Otabek’s skating style was so unique that his exercises did not overlap with Yuri’s. And the rink was big enough that if Yuri practiced on one end and Otabek practiced on the other, they were relatively secluded. 

Yuri found that when he skated his short program, Otabek often watched. Yuri still struggled with what Victor called the “emotional clarity” of the piece, but when Otabek watched him, Yuri found it easier and easier to lose himself to the skating, to the lushness of the music, to the sensation of falling that the program seemed to evoke. The annoyed, fierce voice in his head that questioned his ability to perform was quiet. 

After a particularly successful run, Victor clapped his hands gleefully and exclaimed with awe, “that was beautiful Yuri! You’ve almost got it.” 

He skated up to Yuri and winked, “So, who are you thinking about when you dance to the music? Eh, Yuri?”

Yuri could not help but glance at Otabek. It was the end of the afternoon and Otabek had taken off his skates. He wore an expression of undiluted wonder. His body was slumped over in exhaustion, but the look on his face made Yuri’s chest ache. His body felt hot, itchy and he squirmed under Victor’s gaze.

“No one,” Yuri hissed. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

\-----------------------

A conditioning day, where Yuuri had the two of them doing circuits of different torturous exercises. Yuri hated these days the most because he spent no time on the ice and was utterly exhausted at the end. On their walk back to the Onsen, Otabek suggested that they soak in the hot baths.

“It’s so hot outside, why would I subject myself to more heat?” Yuri whined. 

“Your body will thank you,” Otabek said, “I promise.”

“Do you want to go in first?” Yuri asked, then smiled, “Or we could race for it.”

Otabek raised his eyebrows. “There’s enough room in there for two, Yuri. There’s no one other than us staying at the Onsen right now.”

“Uh,” Yuri’s tongue dried. Immediately, the prospect of bathing with Otabek, potentially seeing Otabek naked, embarrassed him. He didn't understand why. Yuri had seen Victor naked at least ten times and he’d seen many of his male rink-mates in St. Petersburg naked in the shared sauna. 

“What if we just raced for it,” Yuri blurted out.

“Sure,” Otabek nodded. When Yuri glanced at him, his eyes were kind and Yuri was grateful. He took off and Otabek yelped in surprise, fumbling to start. Yuri maintained his head start all the way to the Onsen and as he dashed through the doors, listening to Otabek’s heavy breathing behind him, he felt a wave of joy surge through him. He’d won again. When Otabek came through the doors, he placed a heavy hand on Yuri’s shoulder, bracing himself as he caught his breath. The gesture was strangely intimate—Yuri could feel Otabek’s thick pulse through his palm, could feel Otabek’s whole weight--and Yuri flustered. He could not catch his breath. He could not shake the rattling of his heat, in his chest.

\-----------------------

After the bath, after dinner, Yuri felt a sliver of regret. It made sense for them to bathe together and Yuri felt bad insisting that they do it separately. Otabek had to wait a full hour for the warm, bodily relief that Yuri obtained first. He felt selfish and stupid and he wanted to make it up to Otabek.

The door to Otabek’s room was open and Yuri could see Otabek reclined in his bed, book open in his lap, through the crack in the door. Yuri felt strangely shy. He stood outside, watching Otabek turn pages with his thumb. It was rare for Yuri to find an opportunity to observe Otabek undisturbed. Usually it was the other way around—Yuri found Otabek offhandedly observing him. At first it unnerved Yuri, but after time, he stopped caring. 

Otabek had always been handsome, though he grew even more so in the past three years—features that seemed severe and hard in his youth had softened so that he looked reserved and mysterious. His jawline had lengthened so that when he turned his face, he looked like the chiseled bust of a marble statue. Otabek was growing tan and freckling in the summer sun. Watching Otabek read was soothing and Yuri felt full and subdued, the most relaxed he'd been in what seemed like years. He knocked on Otabek’s door and pushed it open. 

"What are you reading,” Yuri asked. 

Otabek sat up as Yuri came near the bed. He handed Yuri the book on his lap. It was a Russian translation of Paul Celan's collected poems.

"Wasn't this guy fluent in Russian? Why is there a Russian translation for his work?" Yuri asked.

"I didn't know you knew of Celan," Otabek said, eyebrows tall with mild surprise.

Yuri shrugged. He'd seen Celan on his grandpa's shelves. Had read a few dust-covers and short introductions. He did not take to actual poetry very well, indifferent about the vague, elusive nature of the form, and did not bother reading Celan's actual work. 

"Celan only wrote poetry in German," Otabek said, "he did translations of Russian work. Have you read any of his work?" Otabek's features were more animated than normal, his eyes shone brightly. 

"No," Yuri said. He felt oddly guilty. 

"Do you want to borrow it?" Otabek asked, offering the book to Yuri.

"I don't like poetry, I can't believe you read that stuff for pleasure," Yuri meant to sound mean, but he didn’t. Otabek placed the book back on his stack and moved next to his suitcase, rummaging for the bag of hard caramels. He delicately unwrapped the plastic foil and placed the candy in his mouth. Yuri began to fidget listening to Otabek's mouth make soft sucking sounds; his crotch ached. The unexpected sweetness of the sensation had Yuri growing flustered, panicked. Listening to someone eat candy wasn't supposed to be obscene. It wasn't supposed to feel like watching porn. 

"I like to do a lot of stuff for pleasure," Otabek said vaguely, then locked eyes with Yuri. Yuri was taken aback, a small animal cornered by a large wolf, the wolf's hunger palpable in the air. 

"What do you like to do for pleasure Yuri?" he asked, voice light. 

There were many things--the compulsive shopping, the very occasional visit to the animal shelter to pet his favorite cats, the long runs by the ocean--but Yuri's mind was blank, unable to recall these things. He was solely focused on the growing heat that radiated from the bottom of his belly. 

"I don't--I mean--there's nothing that I do for pleasure," Yuri blabbed, feeling himself flush. 

Something hit Yuri between the eyes. He made a high-pitched sound and fumbled before catching the piece of candy that Otabek had thrown at him. 

"Eat this candy for pleasure then Yuri," Otabek was smiling again, the intensity of what passed between them a moment ago, gone.

'Fuck you," Yuri popped the candy in his mouth and stormed out of Otabek's room. 

He tried to fall asleep but found that he was irritated and anxious. He fought off the urge to masturbate for an hour, then gave up. As he stroked himself to completion, mildly ashamed of how quickly he came, the rich taste of caramel candy burst on his tongue.

\-----------------------

Yuri had taken to bathing at night after being in Japan. He usually bathed early so that there was time for his hair to dry before he slept. The hours after his bath and before bed were blissfully subdued; Yuri let himself be lulled by the warmth and the quiet and solitude to a place he did not often go in his heart. Perhaps because of this inner state, he was compelled to use the comb that Lilia had given him—a wooden comb carved so that the handle resembled a swan—to untangle his hair. He remembered Lilia telling him about women who believed that combing their hair with a swan shaped comb every night for a hundred nights, with no less than one hundred strokes of the comb, would turn them into a swan. And so he counted— _one, two, three, four, five_ …closed his eyes and let the weight on his shoulders roll down into the ground.

Otabek wandered into his room during one of those nights. Yuri had cracked open the door and opened his window to vent the hot air before turning on his air conditioning. He was immersed in the combing, soothed by the repetitive motion, before he noticed Otabek standing behind him, by the door. The lights of the room were dimmed and Yuri felt soft and sleepy. 

He let Otabek watch, feeling a wonderful sensation wash over him. It was akin to when his Grandpa came to his performances and Yuri beamed with pride, with strength, in the seconds before the music started, knowing that his Grandpa sat somewhere in the crowd. 

His hair was fine, almost fluffy, yellow and smooth like silk. Recently, he noticed his fans comparing his hairstyle to that of Victor’s younger years, which did not bother him. He wanted to look like that. He wanted people to look at him and see someone who was hungry for Victor’s success. Yuri bunched his hair up into a rope, then swept it side to side. When it was damp, it was heavy, and Yuri enjoyed how it seemed to slip, like a fish, out of his hands. 

Otabek had not left. Yuri turned to look at him, but could not see the expression on the other man’s face.

“Yuri,” Otabek said. His voice was heavy, ladled with that something Yuri could not name, did not recognize. 

“Yeah?” Yuri said, blinking up at Otabek’s face, heavily obscured by shadow. Yuri was seated on a stool by the window, enjoying the cool air.

“Yuri,” Otabek said again, more pressingly. Yuri opened his mouth to say something, but found that he could not. 

“Can I ask you a question? Maybe a strange question,” Otabek said. He was fiddling with his hands. 

Yuri nodded. His mouth felt parched and he was having difficulty focusing. The edge of his anxiety pushed against him, sharp and insistent.

“Yuri, what do you think of me?” Otabek asked. 

Yuri licked his lips. “I don’t understand,” he said. 

Otabek shifted his weight onto one leg, then the other. He was touching his neck, then his elbow, then fiddling with his hands.

“I mean—do you—have you considered—I want—“ Otabek paused, then coughed. Finally, he said, “I don’t know how to ask this in any other way.”

Yuri swallowed. “You’re my friend, Otabek.”

Otabek shook his head. Yuri stood up from his stool and began to walk towards the door, upon which Otabek began to rapidly back up into the hallway. For a split second, Yuri saw Otabek’s face before Otabek dashed into his room, and it was a face of turmoil, of anger, of that something that Yuri could not place, churning for the past handful of weeks in Otabek’s expressions, magnified so that it was immense and all-consuming. Fear crawled down Yuri’s spine.

As Otabek’s door slammed shut, Yuri bit his lip. He could not shake the feeling that someone he had caused this change in Otabek. It was the closest he’d ever seen Otabek to being truly angry, perhaps even furious. Yuri stood in the hallway, under the flickering lights, trying to remember, had he done something wrong?

\-----------------------

A normal day. An ordinary day.

A sweaty morning jog by the ocean where Yuri poked fun at Otabek’s awkward tan lines; stretching in comfortable silence while waiting for Victor and Yuuri to join them by the Ice Castle; warmups where Otabek seemed to skate his arcs with more severity than usual and Yuri briefly wondered if something was on Otabek’s mind. He made a mental note to inquire later.

Towards the end of practice, Yuuri called everyone to the far side of the rink, where he and Otabek usually practiced.

“I think Otabek’s got the kinks to his short program almost hammered out. We could use your eyes and advice,” Yuuri said. 

Yuri had only caught snippets of Otabek’s short program. He was excited—he loved watching Otabek skate but had seen very little of it during the summer intensive—Victor worked Yuri hard and Otabek usually finished practice a few minutes before Yuri did. 

Yuri made the executive decision to end practice for himself and shed his skates by the rink-side. As the music swelled, Yuri realized that it was familiar to him and after a second, Victor supplied him the title.

"Rachmaninoff Symphony Number 2, Op. 27, 3rd Movement,” Victor whispered, “I love this piece.”

Otabek’s skating had been described by many a sports journalist as stately, restrained and aggressively unique. Unlike most skaters with a technical background in either ballet or gymnastics, Otabek had attempted one of those things and failed to take. He skated the way he wanted to. The music initially reflected what Yuri had seen of Otabek’s past repertoire, his steadiness, but in half a heartbeat, without Yuri noticing, the music crescendoed and suddenly Otabek transformed into someone entirely new—his skating became erratic as the music seemed to let go and as Yuri watched, he felt his chest swell. Otabek’s performance seemed to be telling the story of a man journeying through life seeking love; this man, a self-proclaimed romantic, felt as if he understood what love was, he understood love’s quirks and particularities, until he met someone who shattered his preconceptions. Now this man was falling, losing control, trying to hide it, utterly failing. As Otabek dipped into his final series of spins, Yuri felt as if he were the one spinning, dizzy and disorientated. The music cut off harshly. 

The similarities between their two pieces were obvious. And yet Yuri felt more than a little bitter after seeing Otabek’s performance—he had infused his performance with something Yuri had yet to do. 

Yuri let Victor gush, lecture and take control of the post-performance critique. There was something in Yuri's throat that he couldn’t quite swallow. Otabek’s eyes kept flickering to him and Yuri knew that his silence was being noted. He felt guilty for his own jealously.

Afterwards, he lingered in the lobby of the Ice Castle, waiting for Victor and Yuuri to leave. He was anxious to practice on his own. He chewed on a protein bar and did not notice when Otabek slid next to him on the bench. Yuri did not know what to say, so he kept eating. He offered his last bite to Otabek but he gently refused. The silence between was uneasy. 

“I’m sorry,” Yuri finally said, “you skated really well.”

Otabek nodded and stayed silent. Yuri watched as he wound the strap of his bag through his fingers. 

“Did you choose the music?” Otabek’s silence was making Yuri antsy. Something between them was not quite right and Yuri was frantically trying to figure out what it was. 

“Yes,” Otabek said. 

Yuri was certain now that Otabek was angry with him. That had to be the reason. Yuri could not help but feel a rush of shame, red-hot and mind-numbingly painful, engulf him. Otabek had never been angry with him before. 

“Are you—are you angry with me,” Yuri swallowed again, “because I didn’t say anything after your skate?”

Otabek shifted. “I’m not angry Yuri,” he said. 

Yuri was suddenly aware of how close his body was to Otabek. He naturally glanced at Otabek and noticed that Otabek’s eyes were fastened on his face, his expression bright and warm. Yuri was startled. Had he misread the situation?

“Then why—what’s—fuck—“ Yuri looked away and looked back. Still the same soft, vulnerable look on Otabek's face. “What’s going on? Why are you being—?” Yuri’s mind swirled and he grew dizzy again. He lost his chain of thought; the only thing on his mind was how Otabek had leaned in, so close that Yuri was filled with the pepper and clove and sharp sweat smell of him, the warmth of him. He felt like a lightbulb, fizzing out.

Otabek did not say anything for a long time. Yuri fought the urge to bolt. When it became almost too much to bear, Otabek finally spoke. 

"Can I kiss you Yuri?" Otabek asked, in the same nonchalant tone he used with Yuri when he asked, three years ago, if he could be Yuri's friend. 

"What?" Yuri's mind blanked, hyper-focused on the freckles that dusted Otabek's nose. 

"Can I kiss you?" Otabek said again.

Yuri's face was hot, he must be a bright tomato red. He closed his eyes, opened them. Otabek was still there. Yuri hesitated.

"I won't kiss you if you don’t want me to Yuri," Otabek said, eyebrow furrowing. "What do you want?" His tone was gentle. 

"I don't know what I want," Yuri said, the pounding of his heart deafened any other sensation. He remembered a fragment of a dream he had long ago sealed away in that cold section of his heart that was now rapidly bursting, the seams slit, the hot wet contents spilling rapidly into the cavern of his chest. A dream where Otabek had asked, what do you want. Yuri did not remember how he answered, if he gave any answer.

"OK," Otabek said. And instantly, he was no longer there. Yuri watched as Otabek slung his bag over one shoulder and walked through the double doors, out into the street, disappearing down the cobblestoned path. 

Yuri rubbed his eyes, leaned back to rest his head on the cold tiled wall behind him. He felt ready to run ten miles, the anxiety pumping from his chest to the tips of his toes. What do you want. He clenched his jaw. Unclenched his jaw. Clenched his hands. Unclenched his hands. Sat there until the pink light of dusk grew bluer and bluer, until it was night and the street outside glowed with the soft blur of street lamps. His body felt immensely heavy as he walked back to the Onsen. There was nothing he could do to dampen the beating of his heart. He felt like he was drowning, scrambling for air, for purchase, against something much larger, much stronger, than himself. Exhausted, he wondered if he was supposed to give in.

\-----------------------

Yuri awoke to the chill that descended into his room from the open window. The stars were obscured by heavy clouds, the sky a blanket of black so thick that Yuri thought, after staring for a few minutes, that his eyes were still closed. After closing the window, Yuri found himself fully awake. He licked his lips and fidgeted with his hands, pacing the room for a few minutes before stopping at his closed door.

“Yes,” He said to the door, closing his eyes and imagining Otabek’s warm, bright face from a few hours ago. Remembered the voice Otabek used when he asked if he could kiss Yuri. A moment of stillness—Yuri's heart bursting. He felt soft and small and tender, a star glowing faintly in the night sky. 

Then the rush of embarrassment, of shame, of irritation—a reflex he could not control, washing away his split second of longing with a crescendo of things he did not want and yet, could not help but be buffeted by. The torrent of emotion was directionless, just a mass that descended and overwhelmed him. 

He opened his eyes, saw his closed door. 

“Yes” he tried again, but the feeling from before did not return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the next chapter will probably resolve a lot of this built-up tension! These boys aren't super great at communicating and Otabek is trying but Yuri doesn't know what to do.
> 
> I feel like Yuri is the kind of person who would only let himself feel vulnerable and intimate in really specific situations; he's guarded and insecure and ambitious and funny and probably doesn't let himself feel a lot of feelings that are messy or confusing for him.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I hope it didn't get too confusing with the two Yuris!!! Ahhh!!
> 
> The title is a play off the second volume of Proust's In Search of Lost Time, titled In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower.


End file.
